Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘Toodle-pip!’[30]

I slipped away, off into the jungle, before Karim could blow the alarm, or do something else to derail my devious plans. Sneakily, like a slithery snake, I made my way down to the little stream that wound through the jungle not far away from our camp. Mr Ambrose was kneeling at the bank, refilling his water bottle.

Stepping out of the underbrush, I cleared my throat.

‘I’m busy!’ he snapped, not bothering to turn around to see who it was.

I cleared my throat again.

‘Yes?’ This time he did turn. ‘What is the ma-’

His voice died on a strangled choke in mid-sentence. His eyes didn’t turn as big as saucers - that would have required too much facial movement - but they did widen at least 0.00451 inches. For Mr Ambrose

, that was quite something.

I smiled at him.

‘Good God!’ Springing to his feet, he stumbled back, almost falling into the stream. ‘Who…what…?’

My smile grew wider. This was going better than I had expected.

‘Good morning, Sir.’

The Lusty Golem

‘Mr Linton?’

‘You didn’t recognise me?’ I took a step forward. ‘Well, I suppose I do look a bit different from before.’

He tried to take a step back. But taking a step back is difficult with a stream behind you. ‘You could say that!’

‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? It’s the hair that makes me look so different.’

‘Not particularly. I’d have said it was the fact that you are covered from head to toe in mud!’

‘Ah. Yes, that, too.’

‘What in God’s name happened to you? You look like an Indian coming back from a ten-day hunt in the jungle!’

‘Funny you should mention that, because, you know, that’s actually where I got the idea from.’

‘What idea?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s those bloody mosquitos. I was pretty desperate for a way to make them a little less bloody - at least as long as my veins were their favourite diet. I could have put on more clothes, of course, as a protection - but it’s already more than hot enough in this green pot of hellstew. Then Amana mentioned this trick the Indians have: they don’t wear any clothes either, of course, so they roll around in the mud until they’re covered by a nice, thick, protective crust. That not only keeps the mosquitos away, but also has a nice cooling effect as it hardens. Then it just falls off.’

I smiled, proudly, hoping for a compliment on my acclimatisation skills or something like that. But Mr Ambrose, like always, had right away picked up the essential part of the conversation.

‘They don’t wear any clothes either?’ His voice was as cold as midnight in the middle of an arctic winter. ‘Mr Linton, do you mean to tell me that underneath that layer of mud, you are…you are…?’

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. His eyes did all the talking for him. They swept over me, taking me in this time not just as the friendly neighbourhood mud-monster, but as the woman beneath. The moment he realised what he was seeing, his gaze whipped away, and a muscle tightened in his jaw. Desperately, he rolled his eyes from left to right, trying to find anything for them to land on that wasn’t me.

‘You are naked!’

‘Yep,’ I confirmed cheerily. ‘It’s really comfy. You should try it.’

‘Comfy? Comfy?’

‘Why do you think the Indians do it?’